


SIX STEPS TO SEDUCTION

by queercyberpunk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercyberpunk/pseuds/queercyberpunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Zevran's innuendos become more than just innuendos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SIX STEPS TO SEDUCTION

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a brief warning, there is very explicit sex towards the end of this fic. Also as a brief trigger warning, Zevran's scars are discussed several times throughout, so if this could be potentially triggering to you, you might want to steer clear.
> 
> That being said, enjoy

**SIX STEPS TO SEDUCTION**

 

**STEP 1**

“Thank the Maker it’s finally warmed up,” Alistair says, wiping small beads of sweat from his forehead. It’s a nice change, he thinks, from shivering beneath his platemail. The snow has finally melted and the sun lingers longer in the Ferelden sky. The campsite is awash with early spring light, which Alistair gratefully soaks up. The sun is already burnishing his cheeks a rosy pink and bringing about a cluster of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

The springtime warmth bolsters Alistair as he takes a gulp of clean, rural air. It reminds him of when he’d sneak off during silent reflection to go lie in the grass, watching the puffy white clouds meander like fat sheep.

“It is quite beautiful,” Leliana agrees, shading her eyes with her hand. Alistair sits down before the soot-filled firepit, stretching his legs and tipping his head back. It’s almost easy to forget about the Blight ravaging the land and Loghain wanting their heads on a platter.

“Ah, yes, this is quite nice. It is good to feel the warmth of the sun again. I will never understand how you Fereldans stand the winters.”

Alistair glances over his shoulder towards the lilting voice behind him and--

“ _Andraste’s grace_ ,” he splutters. “Zevran, where are you clothes?”

“I am going to bathe in the river, my friend. You are welcome to join, if you wish.” Zevran meets Alistair’s eyes unabashedly, and the twinkling amusement there makes Alistair’s cheek splotch with redness.

“Maker, Zevran, do you have no modesty?”

“Modesty?” Zevran laughs heartily, draping his towel over his shoulder. “Fereldans are so quaint. And you seemed curious about my tattoos before, so now is your chance to see.”

Alistair tries to turn his head away, to not let his eyes roam the immodest amount of skin displayed openly before him. He is, however, curious about the tattoos, so he permits himself a glance.

And Maker, he really _does_ have a lot of tattoos. Arching black lines sweep across tan skin, conforming to each curve and drawing the eye to the contours of Zevran’s chest. Alistair finds his eyes following these weaving, intricate designs like a map to destination he’s unsure of. What surprises Alistair almost more than his nakedness or the flashy tattoos, are the number of scars that line his skin. Some seem old, faded by years--decades, perhaps. Other seem newer, raised and protruding from the skin. They run down his arms and sides and thighs, slice across his stomach.

Alistair tries to find words, but they utterly escape him. Zevran is watching Alistair watch him; it’s unnerving and makes something odd twist in his belly.

“Do you like what you see?’ Zevran asks, tilting his head. The sun catches in his fair hair and his eyes glisten like two shiny coppers.

“You have...a lot of tattoos,” Alistair manages.

Zevran tucks a piece of hair behind his ear and Alistair finds himself watching those long fingers, that tanned throat. “I can still prepare that olive and rosewater bath, should you reconsider my offer of giving you one.”

“Ah...no, I think I’m alright.”

“Too bad, then,” Zevran says, and his smile is inscrutable. “I am off to the river. You’re welcome, should you wish to join me. It must be quite hot under all that armor.”

“Under my...? Uh, no it’s fine. Under my armor, I mean. I think the Warden wanted me for something, so…”

“Very well,” Zevran says and he turns to leave the campsite for the nearby river. Alistair can’t help it; he watches Zevran as he walks away. First he sees the swaying backside, proudly visible and shapelier than he thought a man’s behind could be. He feels wrong for looking, so his eyes quickly traverse upward. There are more tattoos that curve around to his back and branch out across the muscles there. But something catches in Alistair’s throat when he sees the innumerable scars that mark pathways of past pain against his skin. They look like marks from a whip--silvery pale and cruel-looking.

Zevran glances over his shoulder and catches Alistair looking. And Maker, did Zevran just _wink_ at him?

Leliana begins laughing beside him. “I do not think your face could become any redder,” she says, amusement filling her soft voice.

Alistair kicks at the dirt, praying that the blushing stops soon.

 

**STEP 2**

 

Alistair fiddles with the straps of his armor. There’s one in particular that sits just outside his grip and he contorts himself to reach it.

“Next time Kallian decides to loot armor from a corpse, she could at least find a set that fits,” he grumbles. He reaches desperately for the strap, grunting with discomfort. All he wants is to take his cheap, bloodstained armor off and get in a good night’s rest, provided the Taint would allow him that.

“What?” Alistair snaps at Morrigan, who watches him from across the fire. She roasts three fat rabbits over a spit--her game she had hunted earlier as a wolf.

“You look very foolish,” she says, yellow eyes perusing him with derisive amusement.

“I’m sure,” he grits out. “So I can presume you’re not going to help me?”

“Not for all the riches in Thedas,” she says, turning the spit.

“Lovely. Thank you.”

Alistair stares into the fire ruefully. This is not nearly what he’d pictured when Duncan had first recruited him as a Grey Warden. He’d pictured a life of being a respected warrior, with shiny armor and a full belly. Of course, there was the whole darkspawn bit, but he’d grown up in the Chantry. He’d figured a darkspawn couldn’t be nearly as frightening as a chastising Revered Mother.

Yet here he sits, blood crusted into the crevices of his ill-fitting armor and his stomach aching with emptiness. Rather than the respect of arls and nobles, they’re hunted and branded traitors. The state of affairs, Alistair thinks, is rather depressing.

“Let me help you, my friend,” Zevran says. Alistair jumps, having not heard him approach. He does that often, and it always unnerves Alistair. His footfalls are soundless and he always seems to materialize from thin air.

“I--uh...sure. Thanks.” Alistair is wary of Zevran’s closeness, but he’s conceded to his need for help.

Zevran reaches across him to seek out the straps holding his armor to him. He’s so close now, Alistair can smell his rich musk, see his long lashes resting against his cheek. “Ah, this seems to be the one giving you trouble,” Zevran says, triumphant as he unclasps the strap. He lingers for a moment and Alistair can feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

“That should be...alright, I suppose. Thanks.”

“Here, let me undo the rest,” Zevran says smoothly. His deft hands go to work before Alistair can protest. He pulls off Alistair’s chest plate, carefully setting it aside as if it were a ceremonial piece of armor. Alistair finds his tongue useless as Zevran moves onto his pauldrons and vambraces. His hands brush against Alistair, and Alistair nearly jumps at the glancing touch. Though it is light and fleeting, it leaves a strange sensation that flares beneath his skin. The sensation lingers, prickling him in a way that is both pleasant and unpleasant.

“There,” Zevran says as he lays down the last piece of armor.

Alistair rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but Zevran. “Ah...thanks, Zev.”

“Ah, so I’m ‘Zev’ now, am I?” Zevran inquires, chuckling.

A rush of syllables surge to Alistair’s mouth, yet he’s too flustered to articulate anything. Zevran senses this, and places a hand on Alistair’s knee. “I jest, my friend. But if you require help removing any other articles of clothing, you can find me in my tent.”

Zevran rises, giving Alistair a suggestive smile as he makes his way to his tent. The directness of his innuendo bewilders Alistair, who watches Zevran go in disconcerted silence.

“What a perverse little cretin,” Morrigan says, “and you, playing the blushing Chantry mouse.”

“I am _not_ a Chantry mouse,” Alistair says, surprised by how petulant he sounds, “and I’m not blushing.”

 

  **STEP 3**

 

Alistair starts, eyes flashing open. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s awake, and that it had simply been a nightmare before. The Taint makes them feel all too real. He wipes the sheen of sweat from his forehead, trying to shake the grogginess that fogs his mind.

“I wanted to wake you,” Zevran says, “but you looked quite peaceful. That is, until you began to twitch and make most unpleasant noises.”

“Zevran,” he starts, “I slept through my watch.”

“You did,” Zevran says. “It will be our little secret, yes?”

“How long was I asleep for?”

“About an hour. Did you know you talk in your sleep? It’s very charming. Anyways,” Zevran says, reaching into his pack and pulling out a handful of leaves, “chew some of these. They will help to calm your mind.”

Alistair eyes the leaves suspiciously. Zevran chuckles at this. “They are just an herb. I do not mean to poison you.”

“You _are_ an assassin,” Alistair reminds him.

“And not a very good one, it seems,” Zevran says wryly. “You were sleeping like a babe before me just moments ago. If I wished you dead, it would be so. Now take some, my friend.”

“How comforting,” Alistair says, cautiously taking the leaves. He gives them a wary sniff before gingerly putting one in his mouth. It is bitter, but not entirely unpleasant. He chews it slowly as Zevran appraises him from across the smoldering remains of the fire.

“What were you dreaming of?” Zevran queries, prodding at the orange embers with a stick.

“Nothing, really. It’s a Warden thing.”

“I see,” Zevran says. “From the sounds, at first I thought it was a pleasurable dream.”

“Pleasurable?” Alistair says, the word rolling strangely from his tongue.

“Perhaps about our fair warden,” Zevran says, eyes twinkling.

“Pardon me?” Alistair chokes out. “I don’t--I’ve never--”

“Oh, come now, there is no need to be embarrassed. The way you look at her is quite obvious, you see. Alas, you seem a bit too strapping for her.”

“Uh, strapping?”

“She is a beautiful woman, no doubt, but she seems interested in fairer creatures than yourself, if you take my meaning.”

“I don’t,” Alistair says.

“Such naiveté,” Zevran laughs. “You are most oblivious, my friend. She has taken an interest in our lovely bard.”

“But, they’re both...”

“Women? Do not look so scandalized! Such things are more common that you’d think.” Zevran’s eyes glint in the darkness.

“That’s common?” Alistair says, a little skeptical.

“Yes, my friend. Fereldans tend to be more close-lipped about such matters, but I assure you, it is not unheard of.”

Alistair processes the notion, turning it over in his mind. He thinks of Kallian, her hands tangled in Leliana’s hair, their bosoms pressed up together, their thighs intertwined. It’s a disrespectful thought, and Alistair tries to to dismiss it. He can’t help the heat that crawls up his neck and singes his cheeks. He wishes that Zevran wasn’t so good at making him a bumbling wreck.

“Ah, I see I have you thinking!”

“I wasn’t,” Alistair lies, both unconvincing and stubborn. He picks at the grass, plucking out a few blades as they lapse into silence. Alistair can’t help his curiosity, and the words tumble from his mouth: “Does that mean that you…?”

“That I?” The last syllable trails off. Zevran knows what Alistair is playing out, but he lets Alistair struggle for words. Alistair’s lips try to form what he means; he’s never been much good with words. He can never seem to find the right ones.

“Two, uh, men. Is that—in Antiva is it…heard of?”

“Oh, yes,” Zevran says pleasantly. “Many men keep male paramours. The pursuit of pleasure is quite the sport in Antiva, you see. We have a little saying: variety is the spice of life.”

Zevran shifts in the near darkness, voice thickening a little, “As for myself, I fancy many things. I fancy things that are beautiful and things that are strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and things that are exciting. Would you be so offended if I asked what it is you fancy?”

“What I fancy?” Alistair repeats. He remembers adolescence in the Chantry; sometimes a new, young Sister would arrive. He would find her pretty, and therefore would be utterly incapable of speaking to her. Rather than making a fool of himself, he’d shelved the idea of girls entirely. They still filled his thoughts sometimes, but he hadn’t any experience to speak of. He’d not even had his first kiss yet. He’d read enough to know what it was supposed to be like—it was supposed to be all fiery passion and heat, sweeping desire and gallant sacrifice.

But those were just the smutty paperbacks the Templar initiates had passed around. He’d pored over those stories, cheaply printed on pulpy paper and their pages sticking together. He’d imagined a heady mouth on his, a hand trailing down his chest. But this fantasy never seemed to have a face or a name; just some feeling he grasped for in the dark when all his bunkmates had fallen asleep.

“You do not even know what it is you fancy, do you?” Zevran says, softly and without accusation.

Alistair starts when he realizes how long he’s been silent. “I—should probably get back to my tent.”

Zevran watches him in the darkness as Alistair rises. His muscles ache and his neck is sore from sleeping sitting up. He picks up his sword and shield and shuffles back to his tent.

“Goodnight, my friend,” Zevran calls after him.

 

 

**STEP 4**

 

The Pearl is hot and stuffy, packed with people and bursting with music. He sits at a table with Zevran and Leliana, watching the Warden play a card game with a pirate who calls herself Isabela. They both play with staggering skill; Zevran says they are both excellent cheaters, but Alistair’s eyes aren’t quick enough follow.

The three of them are all nursing drinks, watching the game progress. Isabela is gorgeous, all lean muscle and wild hair. Her breasts are front and center and her thighs are revealed by high slits in her shirt. Her jewelry glimmers in the firelight, the many golden rings on her fingers gleaming as she thumbs her cards.

Alistair can’t follow the game, so he turns to his drink. He glances at Leliana and Zevran, who both seem captivated by their game.

“You won,” Isabela says, both taken aback and impressed. “Very well then, I will teach you the skills of a duelist.”

“Actually,” Kallian says, laying down her hand of cards, “I was more interested in seeing your ship.”

Isabela leans forward, a smile curving her lips. The golden stud beneath them flashes. “Would you now?”

“I’ve never been on a real ship before,” Kallian says, “and I’d especially like to see your quarters.”

Isabela tosses her hair over her shoulder, exposing a long, graceful neck. “How could I refuse such a request? Come then, I’ll show you my ship.”

“Actually,” Kallian says, rising from the table. “I was wondering if Leliana might be welcome to join us.”

Leliana starts next to Alistair, blue eyes widening at the request. Isabela’s eyes flick towards Leliana.

“Of course,” she replies, her voice low and suggestive. Alistair finds a shiver trace its way up his back. “If she wants to, that is.”

“Leliana?” Kallian asks, her head tilting as she waits for her answer.

“I suppose I will come along,” Leliana answers finally, pushing aside her drink.

 Isabela saunters over to Zevran, leaning down to place a kiss upon his cheek. “I’ll see you later, I’m sure. Always a pleasure, sweet thing.”

 Zevran grins. “Yes, I’m sure.”

The three women turn to go, Kallian’s hand closing around Leliana’s as she follows Isabela to the door. Alistair watches them go, slightly awed. “So they’re just leaving, then? Are they coming back?”

Zevran laughs heartily. “Oh, I do not think we will see them until the morning. I hope you have a few silvers on you; we will most likely need to stay here for the night.”

“At a brothel?” Alistair asks, glancing around. Roughened sailors and mercenaries sit alongside Templars and clean-cut merchants. Their coin is all equal here.

"I wasn’t suggesting you purchase a whore, my friend. Just a bed for the night.”

Alistair fishes through his pack, and he pulls out a two meager coppers. “I don’t think this is enough for one room, let alone two.” he laments, woebegone and sore from their day’s travels.

Zevran tucks a strand of blonde hair behind a pointed ear, giving Alistair a canny smile. “If you would allow me to take your coin, I could win us more than enough for a room,” Zevran says, “if you will entrust me with it.”

Alistair looks down at the two battered coppers in his palm. They gleam dully at him and he feels himself sigh. “Go ahead,” he says, resigning himself to the possibility of no proper bed. He silently curses Kallian as he drops the coppers into Zevran’s palm. Zevran takes a long drink from his mug, then tucks the coins into his belt.

“Have a little faith, my friend,” he says, winking.

It isn’t until later that Alistair realizes just how glib Zevran is.

He chats his way into a circle of well-dressed merchants, who inevitably end up inviting him into their card game. Alistair sits nearby, nursing an ale and watching carefully as his coppers are passed around. Zevran wins a few rounds, and cheerfully offers to purchase a round of drinks for all the merchants.

 Alistair opens his mouth to protest but Zevran turns to look at Alistair over his shoulder. He winks again, and Alistair finds himself unable to protest.

The merchants become drunker, and Zevran more gregarious and comradely with them. Soon, their arms are around him as they sing some raunchy tavern song. The ale is flowing and so is the coin as Zevran’s pile of winnings grows conspicuously large. Alistair thinks he sees a few card disappear from the deck as Zevran shuffles it, but he moves with such practiced flourish, it’s hard to tell.

Zevran’s purse is fat and the merchants are all too drunk to keep playing. They shuffle off to their rooms or to find a whore to pass the night with. They’re too hazy with drink to realize just how badly they’ve been swindled.

“That was—wow,” Alistair says as Zevran returns to his seat beside him. “They’re not going to come after us in the morning, are they?”

 “Almost certainly,” Zevran says, nodding wisely. “That is why we must slip out rather early tomorrow.”

 “Maker’s breath,” Alistair says, finding himself laughing. “You’re really good at that—whatever that was.”

 Zevran smiles at him, offering him a handful of coppers. “Who do you think taught our dear Isabela? Go and buy us some drinks. Antivan brandy, if they have it.”

Alistair returns with cups of the strong-smelling amber liquid. Zevran tells Alistair to try some, saying that it tastes like Antiva. Alistair takes a cautious sips, and although it burns, he finds himself enjoying it. It’s hot and spicy, potent and sweet. It warms Alistair as it slides down his throat, and after a few more sips, he begins to drink it with enthusiasm.

Zevran’s accent thickens as he downs more brandy. Alistair finds himself asking about Zevran’s work as an assassin, and Zevran obliges him with tales from his time amongst the Crows.

“You fell out a window?” Alistair says, brows shooting up. “A big battle like that, and you just…fell out a window?”

“Yes,” Zevran says, “and urchins stole my boots. They were such nice boots.”

Alistair finds himself laughing, slapping the table as tears gather in the corners of his eyes. “Maker, Zev,” he says, trying to calm his guffaws.

“I’m glad my misfortunes amuse you so,” Zevran says, feigning offense.

They polish off more brandy, and Alistair feels the world spin and dance around them. He tries to hold onto the table as an anchor, but the world continues to whirl.

“I think you ought to lay down, my friend,” Zevran says, voice thick with drink.

“Right,” Alistair manages. He allows himself to be guided by Zevran, who exchanges coin for a room key with a pinched-looking woman. Alistair finds himself giggling at nothing as they stumble down the dark hallway.

 “I like brandy,” he finds himself saying. “Spicy.”

 Zevran laughs as he fits the key into the door. The lock clicks and he leads them into the small, dark room. The sheets are an austere red and the rickety end-tables are covered in guttering candles. Zevran leads him to the bed and lays him down on his side. Zevran then begins to unstrap Alistair’s armor, fingers much clumsier than before.

The last of Alistair’s armor is set aside, and Zevran removes his leather cuirass. Alistair has rolled over onto his back and begins to watch the patterns on the ceiling. They dance so mesmerizingly, he can’t look away. He’s only been this drunk a few times in his life, and the experience is still fascinatingly new.

Zevran climbs into bed next to him, getting between the musty sheets. Alistair turns to look at Zevran, who is laying on his side facing Alistair. Alistair’s eyes are drawn to the curving black ink that arches down his cheek.

 Alistair cautiously reaches out to touch the tattoo. Zevran lets him, eyes closing as Alistair’s fingertip traces the longest line. “Must’ve hurt,” he says.

 “Oh, yes,” Zevran says, and Alistair can smell the brandy on his breath.

 “Why, then?” Alistair asks, drawing his hand back.

 Zevran smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They shine dully in the candlelight like two careworn coppers. “Pain is a very old friend of mine.”

 Alistair’s finger follows the curve of the tattoo again, then his hand comes to rest on Zevran’s cheek. He leans down to Zevran’s brandy mouth and kisses him.

 It’s brief and clumsy, and Zevran draws away from it. “You, my dear Warden,” Zevran says, “are very drunk. Go to sleep.”

 It takes just minutes for a heavy sleep to drag Alistair under.

 

**STEP 5**

 

“You’re letting him live?” Alistair balks.

“Alistair,” Kallian snaps, “we need all the help we can get. Loghain will be an asset to the Wardens.”

“I can’t believe you!” Alistair finds himself shouting even though there are countless eyes on him. “He betrayed us! He murdered Duncan and left Cailin to die! He deserves to die!”

“I think this is a better atonement,” Kallian says, hard and unflinching at Alistair’s rage.

“He sold your people to slavers,” Alistair finds himself saying, “and you’re letting him live?”

“I’m a Warden,” she answers, “and I have not forgotten my duty. Have you?”

“I’m done,” Alistair says, unsheathing his sword and throwing it at her feet. It hits the stone with a dull clang. “I don’t care. Go slay your Archdemon. I want nothing to do with the Wardens anymore.”

“You cannot just leave,” Anora says.

“Watch me,” he retorts.

“Let him go,” Kallian says to Anora. Anora’s lip curls in a frown, but she doesn’t argue the matter further. Alistair turns to look at the Warden, at Zevran and Morrigan standing beside her. He shakes his head and leaves the Landsmeet behind.

When he makes it outside, the springtime sun cascades across his cheeks. He closes his eyes and lets the light wash over him. He isn’t sure how he feels—whether or not it’s emptiness or freedom or regret.

He’s upended the yoke of duty, of all he’s ever claimed to stand for. He feels surprisingly light.

He has no one to turn to and nowhere to go. He thinks of Goldanna’s hut and her bitter tongue that spat out hate and vitriol. He thinks of the Chantry walls and Arl Eamon’s disapproving eyes.

All the places he’s ever called home are unwelcome.

So he finds his feet carrying him to the Pearl, with a mind to get roaring drunk.

The Pearl is busier than usual. The men and women there drink and dance with a desperate kind of urgency. Their merriment has an edge of franticness, of finality.

Alistair finds a vacant seat and orders himself a brandy.

He watches the people: the way the whores curl up in the laps of their patrons and the sailors arm wrestle for coin. The place is brimming with people fighting the coming darkness with the flame of hedonism.

Alistair spends all of his coin drinking himself into a stupor. He lolls in his seat, a shaking hand bringing the chipped mug to his mouth. He wants to cry but he can’t make the tears escape. He isn’t sure if he’s damned them up or if he can’t produce them at all. The Antivan brandy burns like reminder.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Alistair starts, looking up from his drink. “Zevran.”

“You certainly know how to make an exit, my dear Warden.”

“It’s bullshit. All of it.”

“That,” Zevran says, “is very true. Do you intend to go back?”

“No,” Alistair grits out. “I don’t want to be a part of it. A part of Kallian’s scheming.”

“She is very clever, no? Almost too clever. When we encountered that slaver, and he offered her power, I saw her contemplate it, if just for a moment. She is ruthless, and I suppose that makes her a fine choice for a Warden.”

“I don’t want to be a part of that,” Alistair slurs.

“And I suspect you are better for it,” Zevran says lightly.

“So why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Kallian?”

“Yes,” Zevran glances down at his hands.

“So why are you here?”

“I am not entirely sure,” Zevran says, laughing without mirth. “But I think I could use a drink myself.”

They drink Antivan brandy together, watching the people come and go as the hours slip by. Alistair finds grievances pouring out of him, all his frustrations and anger and bitterness. It leaks from his mouth, loosened open by the brandy. His throat is aching and his tongue is laden with truths.

“So tell me,” Alistair says, pouring himself another glass, “why did you come to Ferelden? You don’t seem to like the mud or the snow,”

“Or the constant stench of dog.”

“So why, then?”

“Truthfully,” Zevran says, pausing before he speaks again. “I wanted to die.”

“What? Why?”

“That is a long, sad story, my dear Warden.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Alistair says, “but I’m glad you didn’t. Die, I mean.”

“I think I am glad too.” Zevran smiles, and Alistair finds himself grinning right along with him.

They drink into the wee hours of the morning, watching the steady stream of soldiers and tradesmen come and go. They talk and laugh. They discuss the future. They secretly wonder if they even have one.

“Come to Antiva with me,” Zevran slurs over his drink.

“Don’t the Crows want you dead?”

“Oh, yes,” Zevran says, “but that is of no consequence. I will not be taken by a Crow, I assure you.”

“Right,” Alistair says, “you’ll just fall out a window and escape capture.”

Zevran’s laugh rings high and clear over the din. “My luck seems not to have run out yet,” he retorts.

The bottle is drained dry and they both sway with drunkenness. They concede it’s time to sleep and they purchase a room for the night. When they stumble together to a vacant room in the Pearl, Alistair finds himself laughing. “This is familiar,” he says.

Zevran chortles to himself as he guides them to the room. They struggle out of their armor and collapse onto the bed together.

“Do you think I did the wrong thing?” Alistair whispers.

Zevran looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “No,” he says after some contemplation, “you followed what you thought was right. Even if it meant leaving everything behind.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Alistair murmurs, curling on his side. “I feel like I’ve abandoned everything I ever believed in. I feel like a traitor.”

“You’re not,” Zevran says quietly, “you are braver than you know, my dear Warden.”

“Not a Warden anymore,” Alistair reminds him.

“Just Alistair, then.”

“Just Alistair.”

**STEP 6**

Alistair’s head throbs painfully, and he presses his head further into the pillow as if to drive the aching away.

“Zevran?” he says hazily.

“Good morning,” Zevran says. Alistair sits up, seeing Zevran sitting on the edge of the bed. He is bare-chested and braiding his fine blonde hair.

“You didn’t leave.”

“No,” Zevran says, fastening his braid. “Considering I told Kallian I was leaving her service, I don’t suppose I could go back.”

“You told her that?” Alistair says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Yes,” he says, “I think I more than paid back the debt I owed her, yes?”

“Thanks for…keeping me company last night. I needed it.”

“My pleasure,” Zevran answers, tucking a few stray blond hairs behind his ear. “So what are you going to do now, my friend?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair says, itching the stubble on his jaw. “Is that offer to go to Antiva still open?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s leave Ferelden. I’m sick of it here.” Alistair watches Zevran’s bare back as he adjusts his braids. Tanned skin stretches tautly against lean muscle as his hands work deftly with his hair. Alistair feels compelled to touch the expanse of his back, mottled with innumerable scars.

Zevran goes rigid as Alistair runs a finger down his back. Alistair traces the pale, raised lines carefully. “Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair says, finger trailing over a particularly thick, ropy scar.

“Sorry for what?” Zevran queries, glancing over his shoulder to look at Alistair.

“For everything you’ve been through.”

“You needn’t apologize for that,” Zevran says. He turns to face Alistair. “I do not regret my life, and nor should you.”

Alistair touches Zevran’s shoulder, tracing his hand down Zevran’s bicep, following another black tattoo. Zevran sighs deeply, head tilting backwards. “Alistair,” he says, “you do not have to do this.”

“I know,” Alistair says, mustering his courage. “Can I…can I kiss you again?”

Zevran nods.

Alistair leans down to kiss him, and their mouths meet. Zevran’s tongue seeks out his own and Alistair meets him without his reserve.

Alistair draws Zevran close to him, hands curving around his chest. Zevran groans into his mouth and Alistair feels himself ache. His hands tug at Zevran’s skin and his hips move of their own accord at the low noises Zevran makes in his throat.

His mouth meanders down Zevran’s neck and to his chest. He finally understands what those cheap paperback novels meant when they espoused passion and desire. Zevran takes his chin and pulls him up to his mouth. Zevran’s tongue is as quick and clever as his fingers, and Alistair finds his hands trembling on Zevran’s chest. Zevran tugs at Alistair’s shirt.

Alistair helps Zevran peel the shirt off and casts it aside. Skin grazes skin as their chests press together. Alistair tugs Zevran down atop him as they lie flush on the lumpy mattress. Their mouths continue to press and tease and linger. Zevran’s dexterous hands undo Alistair’s belt, and he arches up into the touch.

Alistair head digs into the mattress as Zevran’s hands run over his groin through his trousers.

Alistair’s trouser are thrown over the side of the bed once Zevran tugs them off. Zevran’s hands follow the curves of muscle and skin and he charts the freckled expanse of Alistair’s chest. Zevran’s brown eyes are opaque and fathomless, eyelids drawn tightly around them. Alistair touches his cheek for reassurance. Zevran’s warm palm closes around his hand. “Are you alright, Alistair?”

“I’m fine,” Alistair answers, breathless. “I want this.”

“Let me show you, then.”

Zevran’s hand teases around Alistair’s smallclothes, light touches that press and promise. Alistair lies inarticulate beneath him, a low noise rising in is throat. Zevran laughs into Alistair’s mouth as he tugs him into another kiss.

Alistair seems to remember his own physical size, maneuvering Zevran beneath him. He’s surprised at his lightness, and how compact his body is. Alistair brushes a stray hair that’s fallen from Zevran’s braid away from his forehead. Zevran watches him carefully as he does this, as if tenderness is something to be suspicious of. After a beat, Alistair recalls that he’s on top of Zevran and he has no idea what he ought to be doing. He feels his cheeks heat, his flame of courage guttering out as his own ignorance dawns on him.

Zevran begins to grind himself into Alistair, hot breath fanning across his cheek. Zevran’s hand loops around Alistair’s neck for anchorage.

Alistair cautiously touches his fingers to the edge of Zevran’s smallclothes. His eyes seek out Zevran’s, looking for some sort of sign.

Zevran places his hand over Alistair’s and guides him. Bolstered by this, Alistair tugs off his smallclothes, then takes off his own. Once they are discarded, Alistair pauses to absorb their mutual nudity.

“Maker,” Alistair says, awed

Zevran arches against him, inviting him. “Let me show you,” Zevran says lowly. “Lay on your back.”  
  
Alistair nods, rolling off of Zevran and resting on his back. His pulse flutters in his throat as Zevran kneels above him, hard length straining against his tan stomach.

He watches Zevran’s blonde head lower, and Maker, is he--?

Alistair inhales sharply, as Zevran’s mouth closes around him. He bobs his head slowly, that warm mouth making Alistair shudder and moan. He’s never felt anything that can compare to it. That blonde head is moving between his thighs and the sight is so erotic it makes Alistair’s hips twitch.

He feels a hand begin to caress one of his balls and an even louder moan slips unbidden from his mouth. Alistair tries to keep his eyes on that blonde head of hair that rises and falls, but his head reflexively presses back into the mattress and his eyes narrow into slits.

“Zev,” he groans as he feels more of himself taken into Zevran’s mouth.

After a short while, the warm suction of his mouth is gone. Alistair looks up at Zevran, who is wiping at his chin and smiling faintly at him. Zevran leans up to kiss him again, and Alistair can taste himself. It’s strange but it makes him _want_ and _desire._ Those words have real power now, real meaning.

Alistair sits up, Zevran still kneeling between his spread thighs. He draws his arms around Zevran and loses himself in his mouth. His hands roam over skin marked by the years.

“Show me more,” Alistair says against Zevran’s throat. His teeth scrape across the skin there, liking the breathy moan it earns.

“Alright,” Zevran says, running a hand through Alistair’s shaggy hair. He disentangles himself from Alistair and gets on his knees, displaying himself in front of Alistair. He leans over his shoulder, copper eyes shining. “Like the view, my friend?”

Alistair’s cheeks flush and Zevran is laughing. It’s a kind laugh though; Alistair knows it isn’t meant to hurt.

“Give me your hand,” Zevran says, right hand curving around his body and grasping Alistair’s. “I want you to penetrate me, with your finger,” he says, guiding Alistair’s hand to his ass. “Alas, we have no oils, so we must be thorough.”

Alistair lets his hand be guided by Zevran and he eases a finger inside of him. Zevran loosely grasps his wrist, gradually building a steady rhythm. Alistair is transfixed by the way the corded muscles of his back tense and move; his shoulder blades press against the taut skin there as if trying to break free.

“Add another,” Zevran says thickly, letting go of Alistair’s hand. Alistair bites his lip and presses in another. Zevran’s back dips slightly and his breathing grows shallower as Alistair tries to find a good pace. Zevran begins to stroke himself in time with Alistair’s fingers.

“Another,” Zevran says. He continues to lazily stroke himself as Alistair complies. Zevran’s breaths are halting and uneven as Alistair carefully fits a third finger inside of him.

 The muscles constrict and grip around his fingers as he pushes and pulls his finger in and out. It’s a powerful feeling, watching Zevran’s pliant body beneath him. Powerful and heady, making Zevran feel the same _want_ that smolders in him, that throbs in his groin.

Zevran puts his hand on Alistair’s wrist, rubbing his thumb across it. “Alright,” Zevran says, tugging on his wrist as a signal to withdraw his fingers. Alistair does so and Zevran turns around and kneels down again to wrap his mouth around his cock. He slickens him with spit, tongue lapping from the base to tip. When Zevran draws his mouth away, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to Alistair’s cock.

Alistair bites his lip at the sight of it, a rush of heat flooding his lower half. Zevran returns to his position on his knees, presenting his ass to Alistair. “Do you want to fuck me?” Zevran asks. He says it so frankly that it takes Alistair a moment to answer.

“Y-yes,” he says, “but, I want to see you. Your face, I mean.”

Zevran looks over his shoulder at him, and an indecipherable look flashing across his features. He raises his brows as if in surprise. “As you wish,” he says, turning back to face Alistair. He straddles Alistair’s lap and positions himself above Alistair’s flushed cock. Zevran places his hands on Alistair’s broad shoulders and carefully lowers himself onto Alistair.

The head of Alistair’s cock fits inside Zevran, and Alistair cries out at the sensation. The muscles constrict around him like a vice, but a vice that cinches him so pleasurably. He shudders as Zevran sinks gradually lower onto him, his face tipping up and his mouth ajar as he takes in more of Alistair.

Zevran slowly and carefully sheathes Alistair completely inside of him, Alistair shudders at the feeling. His hands find Zevran’s hips, and he waits for Zevran to tell him what to do. “Are you okay?” Alistair asks.

Zevran glances down at him through heavy lids. “More than alright, my friend,” he says. A hand slips down Alistair’s chest to toy with a pert, pink nipple. Zevran pinches it and Alistair gasps, hands tightening on Zevran’s hips.

Zevran starts to ride him; it’s slow at first, almost tortuous in how good it feels. Zevran’s jaw is clenched with arousal as his motions begin to gain speed. Alistair’s brain is fogged and his tongue is useless as he watches Zevran quiver above him. His hands help guide Zevran’s hips up and down, and his own hips soon jerk in time. The sound of skin on skin is unfamiliar to Alistair but it thrills him, spurs him on. Zevran’s braids are mussed beyond salvation, blonde hairs bobbing around his cheeks as Alistair thrusts up into him.

“Zev,” he grunts, “O-Oh, Maker’s _breath_.”

Zevran takes one of Alistair’s hands from his hips, and puts two of Alistair’s fingers into his mouth. Zevran’s tongue runs over his fingers, teeth skimming over the skin.

The pressure in Alistair’s cock mounts, and his moans become more urgent. “Zev, I think I’m…”

Zevran nods, pulling the fingers from his mouth. “It is alright,” he says thickly, “keep going.”

Alistair squeezes his eyes closed as he comes, starbursts erupting behind his closed lids. His hands tighten on Zevran as he spills himself. His body sags after he spends himself, heavy breaths rushing from his open mouth.

He’s still inside Zevran, who strokes his own cock efficiently. He grins at Alistair, whose legs are still trembling slightly from his orgasm. “Would it be alright, my dear Alistair, if I finished myself off here?” he asks, gesturing to Alistair’s chest.

“I-uh, yes,” Alistair says, his voice coming out oddly hoarse.

Zevran strokes himself to orgasm quickly, his seed spilling into the hair on Alistair’s chest and navel. Zevran raises himself off of Alistair’s softening cock and jumps lightly onto the floor. Alistair looks over and sees the trickle of semen trailing down his leg. He feels something catch in his throat at the sight.

“That was quite good,” Zevran says, his back to Alistair as he gathers up his clothes. He takes his undershirt and wipes at his thigh. He then tosses it to Alistair, who uses it to wipe up his chest.

“Are you, um, going?” Alistair asks.

“No, no, of course no,” Zevran says, “I just do not like to linger in bed. Such things are for paramours, you see.”

“Are we not paramours?” Alistair blurts. He looks away after he says it, feeling foolish.

Zevran contemplates him for a moment, something very sad in his look. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t suppose we are.”

Alistair focuses on the ceiling, not wanting to look at Zevran. “I understand,” Alistair says. He isn’t sure why it hurts, or if he’s even allowed to feel hurt at his words. But it still does, nevertheless.

Zevran sighs and crosses the room. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. Alistair turns to look at him now, his hair rumpled and lips swollen from kisses. “I said we weren’t paramours,” Zevran begins, “I did not say we never could be.”

Alistair searches his face for a moment, before touching his fingers to the tattoo on Zevran’s temple. There are so many scars that he bears, and they all have stories. Each tattoo, each ghost of a whiplash, is a piece of Zevran that Alistair isn’t privy to.

The corner of Zevran’s lip turns up, deep laugh lines creasing his cheek.

“Alright,” Alistair says.  

For now, the possibility is enough.

 

 

 


End file.
